


Far away from home

by Casstea



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Merlin (TV)
Genre: James and Percival are bros in my head, James gets sent back in time to Camelot, M/M, Q has an alter ego in the world of Camelot, Time Travel, more hinted at Merther
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casstea/pseuds/Casstea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there was a time for James to appreciate the strict progression of cause and effect, now would be that time.</p>
<p>
  <i>(Or James gets sent to Camelot and finds someone who looks like Q but isn't Q)</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far away from home

**Author's Note:**

> For hunters-avenging-hogwarts who prompted me with 'how about James Bond being thrown through time and ending in Camelot, becoming Arthur's knight and meeting a magician who looks exactly like his Q' and then I wandered off prompts and had some feelings and this happened. Hope you like it!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own James Bond/Merlin, this is written for fun and not for profit.
> 
> Song: Breath of Life, Florence and the Machine.

James opened his eyes and the room swam. There was blood matted in his hair from where he had been hit over the head by his attackers earlier, no doubt leaving another wound for Medical to complain about.

_Fantastic._

The word wandered through James’ sluggish mind as he tried to take in his surroundings. Lying on the floor, he could feel the cold from the hard floor beneath him bite through his shirt and into his spine. No doubt as soon as James moved his body more than a few feet he was going to feel the full effects of falling through a ceiling and being bashed over the head by the people he was supposed to be chasing.

James had been in worse situations, involving torture and threats, but he was a trained agent and he knew that he needed to get checked over before his injuries became worse. There was a cut on his leg that he had only placed a rudimentary bandage around, he could just see if it if he pulled his head up to his chest. The dark red colour of the bandage was a sign that the wound was in a dangerous state, and no doubt was to blame for James’ light headedness.

To say he felt like crap would have been a severe understatement.

Grunting with the effort, James rolled onto his side, facing the wall which lay a mere foot from where he lay. His arms were stiff, and it took all of his energy to drag them alongside his body so he could lever himself into a sitting position. James hissed as pain rocketed through him when he placed his weight on his hands. However, the pain forced him to focus, a trick he had learnt from the years of training.

It felt like hours, as he used the small gaps between the stones in the wall to drag his body into a sitting position. His breathing was ragged, and the tell-tale agony which split his side with every inhale of air told him he had at least one broken rib.

Ignoring the pain, James forced himself to concentrate on the world around him. He had been moved from the place he had been knocked out in, placed in a cell that seemed rudimentary enough. The cold air suggested that he was underneath something, so most likely in a cellar of some kind. How his captors had managed to place old-school bars across his cell was beyond James.

A sound from the other side of the bars, down the dark corridor that was barely lit, caught James’ attention. He shifted himself around, so he was facing outwards towards the cell bars which prevented him from escaping.

_Not that will be possible,_ James chuckled silently, amused at his own pathetic situation. It was a humour cultivated over years of impossible situations and near death experiences.

A humour that said when death smiled in your face you simply laughed back.

His vision was beginning to clear, the shapes around him becoming more defined instead of fuzzy blurs. There were two people walking down the corridor towards him, one carrying some sort of pulsating light in his hand. As they came closer, James realised that they were not the same people who had knocked him out in a warehouse. One wore a long red cloak which flared out behind him as he walked, a crown nestled on top of dirty blond hair. The other, the one carrying the light, wore dark blue robes that looked like they were made out of rich velvet, with a mop of messy dark hair.

They stopped a foot away from James’ cell, looking in on him like a caged animal. James shook his head so he could try and focus on the people better, make out their faces clearer.

It was then he realised that the light the dark haired man was holding was not a lantern as James had first thought. No, it was _floating_ above the man’s hand, a globe of light just hanging in the air.

“I see you are awake,” the man with the crown asked. James smirked, from the man’s voice he would guess the man was no older than thirty at best. It didn’t have the rough quality one’s voice received after time had worn away, when you had seen the horrors of the world.

“Would you like to explain what you were doing in the forest?” the man continued, sounding impatient.

_But experienced,_ James thought to himself, recognising the faint traces of authority that run through the man’s words. So he was a leader, James would bet the crown symbolised something in their culture, whatever culture he was currently experiencing.

_Maybe one that likes to recreate the middle ages,_ James thought humorously. His hand rubbed at his wrist absently, as if a part of his mind was trying furiously to remember something that was just out of his grasp.

“Answer the King,” the other man said firmly. This man’s voice didn’t have the same ring of depth the other’s had, yet there was a definite commanding ring to it. It was similar to Q’s, the skinny man may not be physically imposing but he could threaten like the best of them.

“King?” James croaked. His throat felt dry, and he had to fight the instinct to rub his neck. He really _was_ in bad shape.

“You are in the realm of King Arthur of Camelot,” the man with the crown said, voice hardening, “answer my question.”

“King Arthur?” James replied, forehead folding in confusion. That name meant something to him, something more than the legends. A warning from Q, a few words that slid into his mind from the blackness of his memory.

_Don’t break it, or you’ll be explaining to King Arthur why you’ve stumbled into his Kingdom_ _with more tech than he could possibly imagine._

_Don’t break it._

_Break it._

“Shit,” James swore, hand clamping around his empty wrist, looking back from his hand, up to the person who claimed to be King Arthur, and back at his wrist again.

_I said a vortex manipulator would be a bad idea, Q,_ James thought furiously, as he glanced between the two expecting faces of King Arthur and the other man standing outside his cell. He could feel his blood pounding in his ears, his heartbeat rising dangerously considering the injuries he had sustained. Q’s idea to literally _bend_ time around James to give him a few precious seconds to dodge bullets or land a killing blow had landed him a good few thousand years before he had been born.

If there was a time James appreciated the strict progression of cause and effect, now would be the time. Q’s new gadget had come with a warning that it was incredibly unstable technology, and if it was used in the wrong way it would catapult James through time like something out of a science fiction show.

“Would you like to explain?” the dark haired man asked.

“I’m not from around here,” James croaked back, swaying slightly as the realisation of _time travel_ slowly sunk into his injured and broken body.

James promptly blacked out.

x-x-x

It was when he had spent nearly a month in the world of King Arthur and his knights when James met Q.

Well, it wasn’t _his_ Q, but the man was the spitting image of James’ wiry and brilliant partner. He even used similar turns of phrase to Q, and would always give James a deadly glare whenever James turned up in the apothecary with more wounds from the practise rounds with the other Knights.

Life in this era wasn’t too bad, James thought. After all, he had been posted to places where civilization was nothing more than a rumour told in whispers by the locals. The Knights provided good company, and after he had explained to Arthur that _no,_ he wasn’t an enemy spy from one of the neighbouring kingdoms; and _no_ he wasn’t a warlock who had managed to teleport into the middle of a wood leaving no tracks, he had been given a short leash of freedom by the King. He wasn’t allowed outside the City walls without being accompanied by at least one of the Knights. Although, after he had managed to save Percival when he had joined them for one of their patrols from being eaten by a creature that had _far_ too many teeth for evolution to had created it, such excursions was starting to become less of a restriction.

James knocked on the door of the apothecary, trying not to place his weight on his bad leg. Merlin (who had turned out to be the dark haired man who had accompanied Arthur down to the cells on that first day) had offered to heal it with magic, but James had politely declined. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the warlock, but the idea of _magic_ being a tangible entity was strange enough to put him off any cures associated with it.

This meant that James had to rely on remedies which had long been discounted by modern science. When he returned to his own time, however he was going to manage that, James made a solemn promise to himself _never_ to complain about Medical. Being poked and prodded by numerous needles and injected with various substances was much better than having to swallow whatever god-forsaken concoction had been created from plants.

“Come in,” Q’s voice called from inside.

_Not Q,_ James reminded himself, _Medir._ That was the boy’s name in this time, and he didn’t want to enter the awkward conversation again with Q’s doppelganger about _who_ was this ‘Q’ person.

“James,” Medir said, smiling as James limped into the room, “you really should accept to be healed properly.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” James replied. Medir rolled his eyes at James’ stubbornness, as he handed James another vial of some disgusting smelling potion for his leg. The man was Merlin’s apprentice, as Medir had proudly told James on their first meeting. There was an innocent brightness in Medir’s eyes which wasn’t present in Q’s, he truly was a child in spirit as well as in body.

“You’ll have to get it healed sometime you know,” Medir said, nodding to James’ leg, “otherwise it could be permanent.”

“I’ll have to convince myself I’m not dreaming first,” James muttered, shifting his weight onto his good leg. His first few nights in Camelot had certified that James was not in fact dreaming, having gone through all of the tell-tale signs of a coma which were taught to 00 agents so they could try and discern if they were in reality or in hospital. However, there was a still small part of him that _hoped_ he was dreaming, and was not _actually_ in this time, because if he was dreaming he could still get home.

Without his vortex manipulator, James had no hope of getting back to his own time.

Every spare moment of James’ time was spent trying to look for clues as to where his modern gadgets were. He had even diverted one of the patrols back through to the place he had been found under the guise he had seen someone running in that direction. However, James had not found anything that time, nor on the next three times he had crept out of Camelot at night to take another look.

No, as far as he knew it, he would be stuck in Camelot until the end of his days.

_A warming prospect,_ James sighed to himself. Medir noted the dark look flash across James’ eyes, but the other man didn’t say anything. No one knew James’ true story, after all no one would believe it, not even a place where magic seemed to be used so freely. His current cover story was that he had come from an outlying village, kidnapped and taken inside Camelot’s borders by his captors to disorientate him. It was a flimsy story at best, but Arthur hadn’t questioned it any further. James still remembered the knowing stare the King had given James when he had explained his ‘story’, a similar look to the one M gave him when James said he had _no idea_ how he had managed to lose another few million pounds worth of equipment.

“Come back in a few days,” Medir said, nodding to the bottle, “you need to stay on it for a few more days to stave off the infection.”

“Thanks,” James replied bluntly, nodding towards the door, “I’d best be going.” He turned his back to Medir, limping towards the door.

“Do try not to get too injured again in the practise this afternoon,” Medir commented.

Luckily, as James was facing away from Medir the other man couldn’t see the sad expression flash across his eyes. The apprentice spoke so much like his Q, it was heart-breaking.

x-x-x

Three months.

James had become a rather accomplished swordsman quickly. He was quick on his feet, altering the sword forms slightly for his injured leg. According to Arthur, if he kept up his training, he could be a Knight of Camelot in a few years.

James enjoyed the practises, and the company of the other Knights. It provided him with a distraction from the small smiles of Medir, whose presence ripped a hole through James’ broken heart as he tried to cope with the loneliness of being out of his own time. He could find peace with the exchange of blows like he would find peace firing a gun in the range. To be able to fight with the sword properly, you had to clear your mind of all other discretions just like you would when firing a handgun. James knew he would never be as good as the other knights, most of who had grown up using the sword as the method of attack and defence.

He still tried to find clues that would allow him to find his way home, back to his proper time. However, as the days when on his hope on returning home waned. It was a coping mechanism James had perfected on the days of deep cover when he was infiltrating organisations that wouldn’t allow you to leave once they had sunk their hooks into a person. Just focus on fitting in and forget about ever escaping, and you might just survive-

James thoughts were broken when he was swept of his feet by a practise sword and landed heavily on his arse.

“Concentrate, James,” Percival grinned, offering an arm to help James up. James’s mouth quirked up in a smile as he accepted Percival’s hand, allowing himself to be pulled almost upright when extended his leg in a sweeping motion that took Percival’s feet from under him. Using his momentum, he tumbled towards the ground, tucking in his shoulder and rolling smoothly to his feet again. He grinned evilly at Percival, who quickly recovered to his feet again with a determined expression.

“Concentrate, Percival,” James replied, as the other knight struck out with a blow that James managed to doge at the last minute, stepping inside Percival’s reach as he twisted around Percival’s arm, driving the knight to the ground by pressing on the other’ man’s elbow.

Percival took the blow, dragging James forward with him and almost pulling the agent off his feet. James fell with the roll, pushing himself up just in time to dodge the other blow that came from Percival. The knight was quick for his build, and wasn’t afraid of landing blows, only pulling back at the last minute to make the blow a very sore one instead of a final killing stroke.

The fight went on for a good few minutes, ending up with Percival holding James in a headlock that James was struggling to get out from. The knight seemed immune to the elbow to the solar plexus James would usually use to wind his opponent, although the blow had made Percival grunt in pain.

Small mercies.

“I thought you were supposed to be trying to _practise,”_

James winced as Percival let him out of the headlock, bringing his arms up at the last minute to stop himself from hitting the ground heavily. Medir stood at the edge of the grounds with an amused smirk that twisted James’ insides. If the man wore heavy cardigans and glasses he would be the spitting image of his Q.

“You need to practise in the same way you fight a real enemy,” Percival said, helping James up from the ground, clapping him on the back. James nodded at Percival, grateful for the knight’s refusal to treat him lightly when fighting.

“Indeed,” Medir commented, “Arthur’s called a meeting.”

“You’re pageboy now?” James asked.

“No,” Medir replied, not rising to the bait, “I was asked.”

James raised an eyebrow.

Percival grabbed his arm and dragged James towards the castle before he could respond. After all, if the King requested their presence during the middle of the day, then something was wrong.

x-x-x

Five months after the incident with a border dispute, the reasons why James and Percival’s practise session had been interrupted by Medir all those days ago, Gwaine announced he was dating Medir.

Everyone gave hearty congratulations, and James smiled and clapped his fellow knight on the back. However, Percival noted the flash of anger in James’ eyes, and dragged him off to the tavern where they both got very intoxicated and woke up in the middle of a field the next morning with no shirts or shoes, both with thumping headaches.

x-x-x

James had been in Camelot for two years when he was given the rank of Knight.

The ceremony had been full of the pomp and circumstance which James had come to expect of a feudal run governmental system.  Hours later, James was left in his own quarters with his new impractical red cape and sword laying across his bed.

_What is going to become of me?_

The thought was a frightening one, a thought full of lost hope and desperation. His home wasn’t here, in this time, yet with each passing day it was becoming to feel more like his home. He had become less vivacious in his attempts to find the vortex manipulator, less determined to find a way to fix the situation he was in.

He picked up the sword from his bed, now comfortable with the weight in his hand. Drawing it from the sheath, James looked along the edge of the metal, watching the firelight dance off its sharp edge. The blade had become more comfortable to him over the years, and he could quite easily dance through the forms which he would once fumble over.

James sheathed the sword again, when he heard a knock at his door.

“Come in,” James called, placing the sword on the bed. He turned to face the door, hiding his surprise as he saw Medir walk into the room carrying a box.

“Hello, Medir,” James greeted. It was a forced happiness, after all James had tried to distance himself from the apprentice to prevent the constant stab of loneliness he felt whenever he thought about Q.

_Not an apprentice any more,_ James thought. Medir had become a Court Sorcerer, the equivalent of a knight, a few months previously in a similar ceremony full of pomp. It was hard to believe that only a few years before James’ arrival Camelot had removed the law which outlawed magic from its lands.

“For you,” Medir said, gesturing to the box. James frowned, taking the proffered box from Medir and looking at the Sorcerer with a challenging expression.

“I don’t remember this,” James said, looking back at the box when Medir’s face offered no clues. He fiddled with the catch, swinging the lid of the box open-

Inside were his gun and vortex manipulator.

“How did you-” James started. However, he was cut off when Medir placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him a stare that _screamed_ ‘Q’ to James. James stood in shock, unable to move from Medir’s piercing gaze.

“You don’t belong in this time,” Medir said, “it’s only now that I can help you. I didn’t have the power before.”

Then he pushed James backwards, not just through the physical space but through time also. Colours swirled around James, as he fumbled to catch his balance.

When he hit the floor, he was in the middle of Q branch.

x-x-x

“You wanted me?” James asked.

It was three months after his return to the 21st century, and after his detailed write up and many questions from the psychologist to ensure that he was _not_ affected by some hallucinogenic drugs which could have been the cause of his impossible story, James was allowed back on light work. Nothing serious, mind, his leg still had a few weeks to get back to full strength as the modern medicine begun to fix the old injury.

“Yes,” Q said, not taking his eyes of the computer screen, “shut the door will you, 007,”

James did as he was bidden, blocking out the noise from Q branch outside. It had been mostly down to Q’s support that James had been able to recover so quickly, something with James was grateful for. Whenever James woke up, disorientated to find himself back in the modern world again, Q would sit through James’ questions to affirm that _yes_ this was reality and he was home again.

“I’ve got something for you,” Q said, getting up from his desk and walking over to the large cupboard which stood in the corner of his office, acting as a second wardrobe for when Q was required to stay in overnight, “I’m only able to give it to you now because I’ve just found it.”

“Would this be linked to your trip to Wales last weekend?” James asked, intrigued. Q had refused to disclose _why_ he was going to Wales, saying that he wanted to keep the ‘reveal’ a surprise for James.

“Indeed,” Q affirmed, as he opened the wardrobe and lent right into the back, before pulling out an object which was very familiar to James.

“I do believe this is yours,” Q said, handing the cloth wrapped sword to James, “you left it behind.”

“I what?” James spluttered, shocked.

Q gave him a tired look.

“It took be a bloody long time to find it as well,” Q remarked.

“How do you mean I _left it?”_

_“_ As in ‘you didn’t take it with you’,”

“Explain,” James said, his voice hardening.

“I’ve read your report,” Q said, “I’ve listened to your story about your time in the past. You do realise that the chance of meeting someone who is _exactly_ like me in a previous age is almost impossible don’t you?”

“You do realise time travel is impossible,” James replied back.

“Very hard,” Q said, “not impossible, you should know that.”

“What are you saying?” James said.

Q grinned, throwing the sword in James’ direction. He caught it on instinct, feeling the familiar weight in his hands.

“Q,” James growled.

Q kept his grin, holding out a clenched fist towards James. He unfurled his fingers slowly, like a magician revealing the secrets to his trick.

A flame appeared in Q’s hand.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” James said, “ _you’re_ Medir?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Q remarked, the flame disappearing again with a gesture of his hand.

“ _You?”_

_“_ Yes,”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” James asked, unwrapping the sword as if to confirm it was his. Yes, there was the engraving of his name just below the hilt, a sign of his status as a knight.

“You would have believed me if you didn’t have the sword to prove it,” Q said, “you might have thought you were dreaming. It helps to have something tangible to confirm otherwise.”

“So how old _are_ you?” James asked, staring at Q. It was _his_ Q, but at the same time it was as if he didn’t know the other man standing in front of him.

“Old,” Q replied.

“You’ve aged well,”

“Comes with being nearly immortal,”

“I thought age was supposed to mellow your ego,” James remarked.

“Please,” Q replied back, his eyes dancing with delight, “you are the prime example that the reverse happens.”

 


End file.
